I've lived in the same town, Columbia SC, most of my life. Every time I go out, I marvel at the drastic changes that have occurred here over my lifetime. (I sometimes marvel at the changes that have occurred since my last shopping excursion.) Condominiums stand across from my childhood home, where once lived an old couple in a farmhouse who grew corn in their yard.

No place exemplifies the transformation of my hometown more than Harbison Boulevard. In the 1980s, I attended Irmo High School, which is positioned near the intersection of St. Andrews Road and Harbison Boulevard. Riding home from school with a friend (I didn't have my license yet), we rode down the long, empty, recently-paved road to his subdivision. A small corner sign indicated that a short, empty street was named "Mall Road." When I commented on the odd name, he informed me that there were plans to build a shopping mall on that very spot one day.

"Really? Way out here?" I asked with surprise. Unlike the developers, I didn't foresee the population explosion that was to take place in the coming decades. There was a big mall on the other side of town to which people would make an annual pilgrimage for Christmas shopping, but for the most part Irmo residents made do with the relatively modest retail options available in our own area.

By the time I graduated from Irmo in the late eighties, there was a single stop light and a brand new Walmart (the first one I had ever seen) on Harbison Boulevard. And over the next few years, each time I came home from college to visit, I noticed new buildings slowly but steadily popping up along the road like mushrooms after a rainstorm. 

Eventually, the long-planned Columbiana Centre mall appeared. Columbiana was now the "good" mall in Columbia, the new destination of shopping pilgrims. It also became the subject of contention between different local government jurisdictions. The mall sat on the dividing line between Richland and Lexington counties, and for a time, differing Blue Laws in the two counties meant stores in one part of the mall were required to open an hour later than the others. More consequential, the city of Columbia, coveting the tax revenue of the popular suburban shopping area, annexed a slice of Harbison Boulevard  - populated with lucrative retailers - that had belonged to Lexington County. The encroachment of city government into the county not only siphoned off what could have rightly been considered county resources, but it also led to confusion about jurisdiction with regards to law enforcement matters.

In subsequent decades, Harbison Boulevard has continued to accumulate chain stores and restaurants at an impressive rate. Buildings and parking lots cover every square inch of space, and the traffic congestion is some of the worst in the city. A few weeks ago I made the regrettable decision to pick up a last-minute gift in the area during the shopping frenzy a few days before Christmas, and it took me about an hour and a half to traverse a mile of the road. I had plenty of time to ponder the fact that teen boys had raced their cars on the long, empty stretch in this exact place when I was in high school forty years ago.

The population has changed as well. One one recent shopping excursion, I noted that I heard fellow customers speaking four different foreign languages. Unsurprisingly, crime has also become commonplace in the formerly "good" area. I was at a church event a couple of years ago when news spread amongst the alarmed congregants that there had been a gang-related mass shooting at Columbiana Centre. "I was just there earlier today!" I heard someone remark. And when I googled "Harbison Boulevard" for this blog, the top hit was a story about a boy being shot there a few weeks ago on Christmas day. 

The golden era of Harbison as a shopping destination has certainly passed, in accordance with the familiar life cycle of American cities in recent decades. The changes I have observed over the past half-century in my own back yard are probably similar to those you have seen in yours. 

​It is a lovely idea - dedicating one day a year to the practice of gratitude, of designating an occasion for the purpose of pausing and reflecting on the comforts and relationships we normally take for granted. Approaching life from a perspective of gratitude is not just proven to be good for one's health and happiness, it is also commanded by the Bible: In every thing give thanks: for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus concerning you. 1 Thessalonians 5:18


Perhaps you have such an abundance of blessings, they cannot be enumerated. Reflecting on the everyday gifts that are easily taken for granted - food, home, health, friends and family - is a worthwhile practice. But what if you are in a season of life where blessings seem scarce or nonexistent? What if you are experiencing blinding pain that makes the blessings hard to discern or impossible to enjoy? A posture of gratitude is still commanded, but the idea of giving thanks can seem impossible. The command for gratitude may even seem like a dark joke at our expense.


In any circumstance, we have the promise that beyond this world there waits an eternal life with peace beyond all understanding for all who call on the Lord Jesus. But we can still have hope in this broken world, even when circumstances seem unbearably bleak. This point is beautifully supported in the book Treasures in the Dark: 90 Reflections on Finding Bright Hope Hidden in the Hurting. Its author is Katherine Wolf, a self-described "wholesome Southern Belle" from Georgia. As a young adult, she was reveling in her seemingly perfect life, enjoying a fledgling modeling and acting career, with a full social life and young family, when a completely unexpected stroke left her suddenly numbered among the severely disabled. Wolf became partially paralyzed and spent years unable to eat or talk. During the long period of mental and physical anguish that followed her stroke, she leaned hard into her Christian faith, determined to glean purpose and meaning from her tragically dashed hopes and altered circumstances. She has created a new life as an advocate for the disabled, and among many other endeavors, she along with her husband founded the Hope Heals camp for the disabled which is based in Atlanta.


Wolf offers not throw-pillow platitudes, but profound insights in her gem of a book.

She goes so far as to even embrace what she dubs her "hard/good" life path. "What if none of this is an accident? What if God chose me for this? What if I start living like this is exactly the life I would have chosen?"  Wolf identifies blessings that were only realized because of her suffering. "As strange as it felt to acknowledge, I really do like who I have become since my stroke. And because of my stroke. God used the worst experience of my life to develop the best parts of who I am today...I think I feel sorry for the hypothetical version of Katherine who never had a stroke... If my life had been less challenging, I don't think my spirit would have had the opportunity to grow in resilience and trust and humility." 

​
When I read these words, I was immediately reminded of a poem I first read in my childhood, attributed to an unknown Confederate soldier:

Suffering is real, and that should not be diminished and its impact cannot be dismissed with platitudes about "counting your blessings." But we know it is true that Jesus Christ knew immense suffering during his time in the flesh, and we are not greater than our Master. Also, Romans 8:28 teaches that "all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose." This is a challenging truth to embrace during times of intense pain and darkness. But people greater than you or I have endured suffering, and in some cases we can see with hindsight how God used it for an amazing purpose. I pray that you are feeling content and blessed this Thanksgiving holiday. But if not, may God grant you the wisdom and courage to be thankful in spite of, or even because of, your difficulties.

 
I live in the Midlands of South Carolina. I'm a hundred and fifty miles from the coast, and while hurricane season news is usually somewhere in my peripheral vision, I don't normally give it a lot of thought. I know some people love coastal living, but I am more than  content with my land-locked location in a cozy town that's a few hours from the beach, the mountains, and several tourist-y larger cities.

The catastrophic arrival of Hurricane Hugo in 1989, my sophomore year of college, will forever be etched in my mind. At the time, I was far inland in Spartanburg, SC. Still I recall it as the most frightening storm I have experienced. I remember the wails of the women who hailed from the coast as they awaited news of the fate of their homes and loved ones. I remember newspapers full of breathtakingly devastating photos - marinas full of boats that looked like they had been swept up like tiny toys with a broom, endless miles of once-magnificent coastal dwellings shattered into piles of matchsticks. In my lifetime, I have not experienced any other reminder so profound of how miniscule and delicate are humans and our works compared to the immense power of God's natural world.

Perhaps due to trauma from Hugo for those of us old enough to remember, or maybe just the human inclination to expect the worst or over-dramatize, people seem to be continuously waiting for the next similar event. Breathless newsreaders have been reporting on "the next Hugo," or even "Hugo and beyond!" a few times a year, and while serious events have occurred, nothing equivalent to Hugo has yet materialized. The trend of sensationalizing, coupled with the fact that weather prediction is an inexact science, has made some of us numb to these reports. Last month, local schools were shut down for three days in anticipation of Hurricane Debby, which brought nothing more than light rain and even had kids home for a few days during which the weather was actually mild and pleasant. So when I heard small talk about Hurricane Helene, it honestly didn't register much in my mind. I went about my normal routine with no concern.

Well, Helene was no Hugo, at least not in my area, but it was indeed a serious storm. Dozens of deaths have been reported and millions in the Southeast have been left without power. Even in my town at a safe distance from the coast, tens of thousands are still, three days later, waiting for their power to be restored. Street lights are out, driving routes are blocked by fallen trees, grocery selections are sparse and many gas stations' tanks are empty.

Most people in my area have experienced major inconveniences, but only a few people I know have suffered anything that could be considered calamitous. While praying for those who have lost loved ones and homes, we simultaneously curse the days of lessened comfort in our dark homes without air conditioning, microwaves or the internet. We miss warm food and hot showers. We worry about our friends and family who we are no longer able to contact with the simple tap of their name the screen of a handy device. We cannot even exit our neighborhood to check on others because a huge tree has fallen across the road. 

Minor discomforts are manageable. More disconcerting is the realization of how dependent we are on modern conveniences and infrastructure that are extremely fragile. How far removed we are from the experience of most humans in history, for whom these sorts of discomforts and difficulties were normal and expected!

The aftermath of the storm also brings a reminder of the randomness of tragedy. Based on which tree toppled in which direction, people on one side of a street maintain complete normalcy, while people on the other side sit in dark discomfort for days - or even lose their lives.

The days since Helene passed through my town have been lovely, bright and clear. The streets were quickly filled with kids playing in the sunny streets and motorists running errands, navigating intersections without traffic lights the best they could. As I drove through neighborhoods, I observed small groups of people occupied in their yards, wielding chainsaws and carting off yard debris with wheelbarrows. All over town, men on roadsides in cherry pickers industriously tended to downed and damaged power lines and poles. It was heartening to see people's quick, energetic efforts to restore order and normalcy.

Yet it is not normal yet, and we don't know when it will be. I'll count my blessings that my loved ones were not dramatically affected, and remember to be grateful for the mercy of an unfathomably powerful Lord.

Daenerys stood with her hand on the inside knob of her apartment door. Face mask? Check. Book bag? Check. Bunker Bootz? Check. Her choice of foot protection this day was lavender, selected from an array of fashionable colors and patterns found on the hazmat preparedness aisle at Target. She had been in more of a marigold mood, but decided indulging her own fashion whims was less important than showing solidarity with her LGBTPSQ allies who (unbelievably, in the year 2049!) were still forced to pay for their own in-vitro fertilization, embryo rectification, and species or gender transition procedures in some Unity Regions. Smart phone? Check. Daenerys (of course) had an identification chip implanted in her hand, but had not yet been able to afford the implantable smart-screen stamp, so she still had to carry her exsomatic device for some purposes. 



Trudging down four flights of stairs in her heavy, acid-resistant boots, Daenerys’ mind was as blank as the pale, yellowing walls of the stairwell. After leaning her full weight against the thick metal door to open it towards the street, her senses were overwhelmed with smells and sounds. Sewage, chemical runoff, and food waste stench emanated from the sludge on the street, dulled but not completely blocked by her snug mask. Sounds from diesel engines and honking horns painfully penetrated her ears. If only the anti-progressives had listened to reason in the pre-Unity era, and passed the Green New Deal before it was too late! But the dominant Pallid regime had implemented short-sighted, selfish, and capitalistic policies, and subsequent generations were forced to live with the resulting contamination. 



Historically, Pallid culture had done so much damage. Cringing with shame, Daenerys felt the weight of the collective crimes of which her skin was emblematic. She had learned at Amazon Unity Region University that the guilt she bore was embedded in her DNA and that there was no available gene therapy to correct it. Though her debt to the Melaninated could never be fully paid, she was obligated by morality (and by law!) to make every possible effort to mitigate the damage. Of course, she would have been happy to undertake the pallotype suppression exercises even without the threat of being fined or jailed. It was the right thing to do. And the medley of African, Indian, and Asian music that was softly playing at all times in her dwelling unit was actually kind of nice. If it kept her brain from falling into pallotypical mental patterns, which as a Pallid she would always be prone to do, well, that was a just a bonus. The small electric jolt that emanated from her implanted ID chip when Daenerys used archaic, pallocentric language (like referring to Unity Regions as “states,” a common habit of Allies who were old enough to remember life pre-Unity) had been far less pleasant, but by now she had mostly purged herself of the forbidden terms, so it was no issue. 



The reparative equalization fees were another contribution Daenerys was happy to make. As the first head of the Department of Reparations, Secretary Ocasio-Cortez, had explained many years ago, Pallid slaveowners had kept one hundred percent of the product of Melaninated slaves’ labor, so allowing Pallids to keep twenty percent of their own earned income was comparatively generous. Considering how difficult it was for Daenerys to manage on twenty percent of her own earned income, she felt immensely grateful for the mercy displayed towards her by the Melaninated. 



As she trudged through the filthy streets towards her Team Labor Assignment, Daenerys’ attention was absorbed by the Ally speaking on the massive Unity News Network screen that hovered above the street. It was wonderful that the Unity Regions’ Central Authority had decided to place these screens in public venues in all the Unity Regions to make sure that everyone could be equally well-informed. Even though access to live-streaming had been declared a human right by the Continental Equity Council in 2032, there were still some Allies who lived only on their Universal Basic Income which was insufficient to pay for the cost of having the video feed delivered to their dwelling units. Daenerys sighed with resignation. So much work remained to be done. 



The Unity News Network speaker, Kardashia Kumar, was a female-presenting Ally with sepia-toned skin who was wearing a bright red skirt suit. Xer lips were boldly hued with matching red lipstick. In a chipper tone, Kardashia delivered news that Central Authority Leader Jayden Jiminez had decided was most important for Allies to know that day. 



As she plodded through the streets, Daenerys watched Kardashia calmly inform viewers that Netflix Unity Region Team Leader Malia Obama had been under fire since hacked photos emerged of her wearing a vintage, pre-Unity “Pride” t-shirt. An apologetic Obama defended her display of the pedophile-phobic-and transspecies-exclusive image, emphasizing that she felt the archaic symbol embodied her family’s heritage of promoting what, in less enlightened times, had been viewed as progress, and was not, as critics claimed, a promotion of hatred towards marginalized Ally groups. 



Next, UNN Arts correspondent Ming-na Ogumbawa excitedly announced that the K-Pop band P#ndaz00a was set to receive the best song award of the year, marking the first time such an honor had been granted to a trans-species trio. The award would be presented by music legend Ivy Blue Carter at the Cardi B Center for Fine Arts in Detroit, capital city of the Proctor and Gamble Region. 



Male-presenting ally Vladmir Al-Hazmi reported from the northwest that an angry, armed Melaninated Ally group continued to occupy a food distribution hub in the Walmart Unity Region. Ally Group leader Tyrone Randhawa was claiming that Team Lead Gunter Chen failed to provide adequate food rations to Melaninated dwelling compounds, while Chen blamed regional leaders for allowing the Unity Agriculture Authority’s armored food trucks to be seized by local gang members.  



Another field correspondent, Mohammed O’Donnel, provided a report from the Blackrock Unity Region. This region - which some had once referred to as Appalachia before being zapped out of the habit - was a largely rural area, and geographically one of the largest of the regions. It was still plagued by pockets of people resisting Unity. When the Unity Regions had been established, some religious fanatics (mostly unrepentant Pallids, along with a handful of their Melaninite accomplices), had retreated out of the cities into mountainous areas that were almost impassible except on foot, taking with them only what they could carry. They had established walled homestead communities they called Freedom Forts. (Daenerys scoffed at the thought of “freedom.” Why would you want “freedom” if it meant living in a shed built from sticks, eating food you pulled out of the ground, completely cut off from electronic communications and entertainment?) Video footage obtained by drones indicated that the anti-Unity extremists had displayed remarkable resourcefulness and ingenuity, surviving fairly well so far using only indigenous resources to build shelter and grow or capture food. The fort residents had built small but sturdy homes, primitive water collection and purification systems, and pulley systems to shuttle various items quickly up and down the mountainside to their forts. Some had even fashioned art work, instruments and recreational equipment out of natural resources, all examples of feeble attempts to break up the monotony of their bleak existence. 



Obviously, the Freedom Forts should and would be stamped out, but dealing with the obstinate Unity Resistors had proven much more difficult than expected - a fact Resistors absurdly attributed to their Bronze Age Sky King of myth. In reality, it was because vicious infighting among the Unity Region Team Leads and bloody conflicts among various Ally Groups in the cities had thus far been of more pressing concern than isolated groups of Resistors. Because they had not yet become the central focus of the Team Leads, the Resistors had been left alone for a time to fester in their pitiful little forts. Daenerys had heard chat-room rumors that Resistors had been smuggling resources out of the Unity urban areas, and the UNN had reported that some of the deluded extremists meant to defeat the Unity Region Central Authority using guerilla tactics to sabotage infrastructure. It was comical, really – the idea that the state-of-the-art, fully unified financial and communications systems designed by the most diverse teams in history could possibly be compromised. And how could anyone think that these primitive, ignorant people could get in and out of the sophisticated city centers without detection, much less cause any kind of noticeable harm? 



Arriving at her Labor Assignment fifteen minutes early as expected, Daenerys dragged her Bunker Bootz across the sharp steel grating at the entrance to the employee mud room, where she shook the ash off her overcoat and hung it on a hook.  



“Dani, Dahling!” cooed Sanjay. “Divine to see you! Now get your sweet derriere over here behind the register, the line’s almost out the door!” Sanjay wore fuschia chiffon and a pink mask with an ornate stitched pattern of gold. Swirling pink and gold earrings hung down on his shoulders, almost as low as the bottom of his neatly trimmed beard. 



“Coming, coming!” Daenerys reassured, scurrying to her spot behind register number two. Daenerys had been assigned to a food service establishment on the outskirts of the Wells Fargo Unity Region in the northeastern part of the continent. Pre-Unity, it had borne the pallocentric moniker “New York.” Though the name had been changed, the area remained the most important financial center in the Continental Unity Region. Daenerys liked knowing that she was working in proximity to this important place, even though her job – serving bottled soda, mixed coffee drinks and prepackaged snacks - was dull, repetitive and thankless. 



Daenerys spent the next few hours blending drinks and pulling food for a continuous stream of customers whose faces all blurred together in her mind. The snack bar where she and Sanjay worked was a dilapidated, primitive facility in which little had been updated since it was built in the early 2010s. Standing in the cramped space, she noticed her muscles became tense and achy, and an uncomfortable twinge in her bladder, and longed for break. The line of customers had dwindled, so she took up Sanjay on his offer for her to “Take five, Sweetie. Or take ten. You look beat.” After relieving herself, she sat down, knees even with shoulders, on a tiny metal stool behind the counter.  



She watched blankly as Sanjay plunked down bottles of soda and water for the customers, who casually waved their hands over the pay pad that was bolted onto the counter. Sanjay watched for the green light to indicate each customer’s chip payment had been validated, then smiled, “Just lovely. You are good to go, Xir.” Usually this was a quick process, but the current customer seemed to be holding up the line. A large, male-presenting Ally in a black hoodie was hunched over the pay pad, waving his hand back and forth over the sensor, but the blinking red light indicated that the sensor was not reading his chip. “Try again, Xir. A little closer to the pad,” instructed Sanjay, in a tone which Daenerys recognized as controlled annoyance. 



A buzz in her pocked reminded Daenerys that she had not checked her exsomatic device for a few hours. 



Sanjay was beginning to lose patience. “Xir, I’m afraid you’ll need to remove your glove, Xir. Our reader is much less sensitive than the new ones.” The black-hooded Ally gestured at Sanjay with a rude hand wave to back away. 



Daenerys thumbed through the notifications on her exsomatic device.  



ALERT: MAJOR DAM BURST IN WESTERN FACEBOOK UNITY REGION. 20,000-30,000 ALLIES DEAD OR MISSING 



ALERT: RESISTOR OPERATIVES BREACHED CITY CENTERS; PLAN TO TARGET VULNERABILITIES IN OUTDATED HARDWARE TO DISRUPT UNITY NETWORK. 



ALERT: SERUM FOR VIRUS VARIANT XG21 HAS BEEN APPROVED BY UNITY CENTRAL AUTHORITY. ALL ALLIES MUST REPORT TO LOCAL HEALTH CENTERS FOR INJECTION. 



Sanjay’s voice was becoming increasingly loud and agitated, and Daenerys snapped her head up to see what was happening. The black-hoodied Ally was still hunched over the pay pad, and seemed to be intently focused on something. 



“I SAID,” Sanjay spat, “REMOVE YOUR GLOVE, XIR.” Sanjay grabbed the man’s glove at the wrist and yanked it down. Sanjay and Daenerys gasped at what they saw when his bare hand was exposed. In the fleshy part of the hand between the index finger and thumb, where the ID implant and tattoo were meant to be, was.... nothing. Nothing.  



Sanjay and Daenerys exchanged looks of wide-eyed horror upon beholding the bare skin. This man was no Ally. He was a Resistor. 



Before either could speak, the Resistor stood up to his full height, drew back his trunk-like muscular right arm, and forcefully planted his fist into Sanjay’s face. Sanjay staggered backwards, falling against the back counter, and knocking plates, cups, and plastic bottled drinks onto the floor.  



“IT’S SIR,” he roared. He took a breath, and in a calmer tone added, “But you can call me Chad.” 



Chad tilted his head towards his shoulder and said in a low voice, “It’s in.” One second later, the lights in the café flickered, then went dark. 



Daenerys looked out the window. It looked like the lights on the rest of the street had also gone dark. She heard tires squealing, and a crash. 



Looking further into the distance, she saw a helicopter crash into a bridge and burst into flames. 



Chad’s heavy black boots pounded the ground until the Resistor reached the cafe door. Daenerys saw his broad shoulders and beard in silhouette as he paused briefly in the door frame. The back of his hoodie displayed a phrase in an archaic language that she did not recognize: “Deo Vindice.” 


​
Daenerys blinked. By the time her eyes flicked back open, Chad was gone. ​

​The news of that OJ Simpson had died of cancer hit the news this week. Many young people don't know much about him, only remembering that he was a ball player of some kind and an actor. Of course, those of us who were adults in the 1990s well remember his lengthy, public trial for the brutal murder of his estranged wife and another man, and the immense cultural impact the murder trial had during the mid-1990s.

Anyone of Generation X and older cannot help but remember the farcical “trial” monopolizing the news for over a year. It's hard for anyone much younger to understand how, in an era with no internet and far fewer TV channels, the major media controllers could choose to bombard the public with a 24/7, 360-degree wall of media coverage that was completely ubiquitous and inescapable. The entirety of America was subjected to trial coverage that amounted to sleazy, brainless, and racially-charged tabloid television all day, every day for a year. Every public space had a television tuned to CNN, which featured self-important, half-wit “news” people micro analyzing and sensationalizing each day's developments in granular detail. Everyone involved with the trial became a household name - the victims, lawyers, police officers, and witnesses. One witness, Simpson's long-term house guest Kato Kaelin, who had flowing blond hair and surfer's countenance, was deemed the "hunk" of the trial. Jay Leno's Tonight Show regularly featured a dance troupe dubbed the “Dancing Itos," all with glasses, beards, and robes to mimic trial Judge Lance Ito. Simpson's attorney Johnnie Cochran, notable for his unique cadence and oft-rhyming courtroom quips (“If the glove doesn’t fit, you must acquit,”) became a cultural icon and was later the inspiration for the Seinfeld character "Jackie Chiles". (Youngsters, you can imagine it as a bit like today's meme culture, but completely inorganic and top-down, and you can't unfollow the content creators.)

We mustn't neglect to mention the ingn0nimity of the police officer Mark Fuhrman. While on the stand, he was questioned at length about his use of racial slurs and other derogatory terms. He insisted he had never uttered the offensive terms presented. Can you guess the plot twist that took place next? The defense produced old audio tapes in which Fuhrman tossed out n-words like candy at a parade, completely discrediting himself. This orchestrated "gotcha" was not directly relevant to the question of Simpson's guilt or innocence, but it was very relevant to the level of racial animosity among members of the general public who were transfixed to the trial.

The day the "not guilty" verdict was broadcast live to the nation, racial divisions in the reactions were obvious. White people were stone-faced, stunned, and dismayed. Blacks were ecstatic, celebrating as if their favorite team had just won the Superbowl. A charitable interpretation of the celebration might be that they believed an innocent man had been spared injustice. However, at least some were forthcoming about the fact that they viewed the acquittal of a black murderer as vengeance for perceived mistreatment by whites. As news of Simpson's death spread online, a video clip began circulating of an recent interview with a juror in which she admits she believed Simpson was guilty, as did the majority of the other black jurors. She explains that they chose to declare him "not guilty" as retribution for the well-publicized beating of felon Rodney King by a group of white police officers who were subsequently exonerated.

The fanfare surrounding the trial was particularly pointless considering that its outcome was a foregone conclusion. The trial was decided before it began when the defense secured a change of venue, relocating the trial to a more black jurisdiction rather than Simpson's affluent area where the crime had occurred. There was no real chance a heavily black jury was going to find him guilty under any circumstances.

In the several decades that have passed since the trial, much has changed, but there are elements of the episode which make up a familiar pattern: The media creates a national obsession surrounding what might otherwise be an unknown or page 2 crime story to push a racial narrative. They manufacture a culture of celebrity surrounding unremarkable and undeserving individuals. They spend weeks or months of fanning the flames, gaslighting, promoting the most inflammatory possible racial narrative. The entire sordid phenomenon had been mostly forgotten, but the cultural damage remains.

This week on X, the Website Formerly Known as Twitter, a post by former Miss New Jersey Sameera Khan against a Southern woman went viral and caused some umbrage in the Dixiesphere. The uproar began when Khan directed disdain at Alabamian Hannah Barron, aka "The Catfish Girl." Barron's YouTube channel, which has almost 750,000 subscribers, showcases her enthusiasm for hunting, fishing, and processing and cooking hunted meat, among other things. 

On March 8, Khan tweeted a short video of Barron excitedly showing updates of a house building project, remarking, "This accent needs to be illegal and women should be banned from doing manual labour like this. There is NOTHING feminine about American women. American women are literally men." As of March 10, the tweet has received over 44 million views and 25,000 comments, most of them negative.

In response to the deluge of backlash, Khan doubled down on her comments the next day. She shared a video of herself having her makeup done for a photo shoot along with the comment, "Lebanese women are literally perfect. And they are actually feminine, unlike estrogen-deficient American women who hold the record for highest testosterone levels in the world... High-value American men should become passport bros. Don’t they deserve better than the filth they are limited to in their own country…?"

More interesting and encouraging was the bold backlash against Khan's vicious and unprovoked criticism of Barron.

"That's marriage material in my neck of the woods!"

"I dunno. I think she's pretty badass."

"She's a very happy person and seems to be living her best life." 

More than a few supporters were overtly pro-Southern. A poster using the handle "Lauren wants TEXIT" stated, "Thankfully, Southern women are too busy being useful to worry about what ornamental women such as yourself think about our accent or culture."

One tweeted, "The anti-southern propaganda will stop. Women like her built this nation. Women like you flee to it."

One man simply remarked, "Dibs on the Southern girl!"

​It is worth noting that the accomplished Khan, who has worked for RT and bills herself as a  foreign policy analyst, would lash out so viciously at a lesser-known woman who she claims is her clear inferior. And the backlash to her vitriol was heartening - almost universal support for the fit, personable and outdoorsy Barron, and a sizeable chunk of it was explicitly pro-Southern. The brazen, unprovoked contempt against our people and culture is increasingly conspicuous, and it seems to be reawakening a sense of Southern identity and forging a greater sense of ourselves. We can hope that as our detractors' masks of civility and tolerance are tossed aside, good people will continue to wise up.

A few days after the initial provocation, a chipper and smiling Baron released a short video response. 

"Good morning y'all!... Apparently I'm trending on Twitter right now, because some girl - [Barron pauses to greet her dog] - some girl said that my accent should be illegal... and that American women are basically men. I would tell y'all this girl's name, but I can't remember it, because I don't have a clue who she is... I've been helping Dad build houses since I was fifteen... I just help as much as I can, and I try, and it's fun... There's a lot of blue collar women out there who are also feminine... These folks talking about me and think they're going to offend me, that ship sailed a long time ago... Be your own person and you'll be happier in the long run because of that."

I know which woman I have an affinity for, and I'm betting you feel the same way.

​I hate the Superbowl.

I'll admit I'm biased. I don't like sports, and I never have. I lack the athletic ability to do anything that requires more coordination than walking. I hated playing sports as a child when required for physical education, and even when I was in college, I only kept track of the football schedule so I would know when to avoid the heavy stadium traffic. I did attend a few Superbowl parties in my college years, but it was for the company, not the game. 

The Superbowl has always been about more than just football, known as much for its memorable (and expensive) commercials and lavish half-time shows as for the game. It's the essence of American pop culture, encapsulated and on steroids. And the Superbowl is a garish and nauseating display of that sickly and distorted essence.

Some of us are old enough to remember when professional sports was considered a fun diversion from stress and responsibility. It has since become what everything else in modern society now is - a vehicle for heavy-handed communist propaganda which insults and disgusts its audience. It has become common in the dissident right to express open disdain for fans who steadfastly ignore the affronts and continue shamelessly cheering for their favorite "sportsball" teams. They express disgust with the hangers-on who ignore real societal threats which need to be addressed by strong men, choosing instead to scarf cheese fries and passively cheer for overpaid thugs who run fast and throw balls. 

Objections to the Superbowl go far beyond the "breads and circuses" aspect of professional sports. This year, the Superbowl is expecting a new viewership demographic, since (as anyone who has not been in a coma for the last six months knows), larger-than-life pop star Taylor Swift is romantically involved  with Travis Kelce of the Kansas City Chiefs. "Swifties" who couldn't care less about football have been tuning in this season, hoping to see a glimpse of Tay-Tay jumping up and down and squealing in the stands during her boyfriend's game. How fortuitous for the NFL! A cynical person might wonder if the entire relationship was cooked up in a conference room by a sophisticated public relations and marketing team. Such a cynical person might also wonder if, in light of Kelce shilling for the Pfizer vaccine, some representatives of the pharmaceutical industry were in the same meetings. (He's also hawking Bud Light, the beer which damaged its All-American brand image by linking itself to a transgender influencer last year.)

​The racial fracturing in the United States has been evident in professional sports. It became undeniable a few years ago when Black athletes began kneeling during the National Anthem. This year, "Lift Every Voice and Sing", known as the Black National Anthem, is being featured at the Superbowl. It's consistent with nationalism to accept different peoples having their own anthems. But in the case of the Superbowl, as with other American sporting events, the traditional American national anthem of the Star Spangled Banner has been performed. It was assumed, (at least by civic nationalists), that the anthem applied to people of all creeds and colors who called themselves Americans. The fact that a separate anthem is given a prominent spot in the most-watched event of the year is incredibly significant. Black Americans are distancing themselves in a tangible way from the historic, nominally unified American nation. Despite this strong indication that the veneer of unity is being cast aside, I don't think most White Heritage-Americans are ready to openly embrace racial identitarianism. But this is a conspicuous crack in the facade.

I remember once enjoying the funny Superbowl commercials, like the Budweiser frogs. Some of the ads are still funny, but now the campaigns are about the woke agenda as much as the product. One noteworthy ad this year is for the He Gets Us pro-LGBT Evangelical organization backed by the Hobby Lobby family, 

​​Likewise, the halftime shows aren't just about entertainment. Many have speculated that the shows are actually highly stylized satanic rituals. That may seem too conspiratorial for some, so suffice it to say that they are full of provocative and somewhat disturbing imagery, and far from family friendly. The Superbowl is a massive celebration of empty diversion, highlighting division, commercialization, communist propaganda, and idol worship, all there with a satanic cherry on top. There could be no more apt embodiment of the decadent American empire.

I used to be a "political junkie," fervently live-posting Presidential debates and following the daily developments of each campaign season with the enthusiasm with which some people follow sports playoffs. That was more than a few years ago. The change in my outlook was gradual, but really solidified over the past few years. In my mind, the Trump presidency was a Hail Mary for saving the United States in which I grew up, and the failed promise of his miracle ascendancy was a splash of ice cold water on my already waning enthusiasm for politics. That let-down was followed by an (apparently, allegedly) stolen election which installed as President a senile shell of a man, guilty of breathtakingly brazen corruption and patriarch of a stomach-turningly depraved family. It was deemed treasonous to question election results which seemed to indicate that Biden was the most popular President in American history, though he could scarcely gather enough warm-blooded supporters to fill a high school gymnasium. 

I understand now that politics is as fake as wresting or "reality" TV, but with a much more sinister purpose, so I try to tune out the whole perverse display as much as possible. However, this is an election year and it's hard to avoid completely, especially since it's apparent that the donor class have chosen South Carolina's own Nikki Haley as their preferred future POTUS. Among Haley's many deep-pocket donors is Charles Koch, financier of the Americans for Prosperity PAC. In recent weeks, I have been getting slick ads on quality card stock in my mailbox a few times a week from AFP touting of Nikki Haley for President. The ads feature vague language about a "positive vision for America," or claim that unlike the embattled Trump, Haley can beat Biden in a national election! Neighborhoods in my area are being canvassed by door-knocking Haley advocates who are almost certainly paid by the same PAC. 

​I'm not sure how much her lack of talent or integrity matters at this point in our nation's decline. If there's still enough semblance of a country left by next November that we engage in the pretense of an election, we may have this empty suit, wine-mom version of Hillary Clinton foisted upon us by the self-appointed masters of the universe. I've detached from politics enough that it won't rattle me too much. The real Master of the Universe is on his heavenly throne. If it happens, I'll turn my attention to smaller and better things while the USSA collapses on her watch.

We're on the cusp of 2024. Based on the trajectory of the past few years, there doesn't seem to be much cause for optimism, and I haven't heard much hopeful chatter in real life or on the interwebs. It's my philosophy that at the global level, what will happen will happen, and you or I can't do much to change that. However, what we CAN do is engage in small, purposeful actions with the goal of edifying ourselves, preserving things that are valuable, and savoring moments of joy and meaning in our everyday lives.

One way to do this is to cultivate the habit of keeping alive our Southern culture and traditions. Those of us who value the old and contemporary South have a wonderful new resource for incorporating it into our daily lives. Our friends at Shotwell Publishing ("Southern Books. No Apologies.") are offering their first edition of the 365 Days of Dixie calendar for 2024. 

The 365 Days of Dixie calendar is like none you've ever owned. Of course, it has beautiful graphics for each month that celebrate historic and modern-era aspects of Southern culture. But it is unique in that it also has reminders of important dates for Dixians to note - and not just for Civil War and Confederate history enthusiasts, though there's a-plenty for those folks. This calendar includes the birthdates of important contributors to Southern thought and culture like Flannery O'Connor, M.E. Bradford, and Wendell Berry, to name a few. You'll also be reminded of the anniversaries of important happenings in modern US history such as the federal siege against civilians at Ruby Ridge, and the anniversary of the attack on lawful pro-monument demonstrators in Lee Park, Charlottesville Virginia in 2017. More positive commemorations, like like the launch of the Beverly Hillbillies show, the publication of "I'll Take My Stand," and the first Augusta Masters tournament are included too.

They didn't include any Muslim holidays or specify which Ethnic-Subgroup-American History is being celebrated each month, so if you need those reminders, you probably ought to just get a calendar at Walmart. But if Dixie is number one in your heart, there is no other choice! Get your favorite new calendar HERE.

I recently sat down to address envelopes for the annual family Christmas cards, and it occurred to me how rarely I set upon such a task nowadays. Obviously, people are not sending cards or other personal mail as much as they used to. How exciting it is in our current age to find a piece of mail with one's name handwritten on the front, and a colorful personal return address sticker in the corner? It’s almost like stumbling upon hidden treasure!

Electronic communication makes keeping in touch so much easier, which is beneficial from a practical standpoint, But when it comes to important personal relationships, it makes our interactions almost TOO easy. We can casually and effortlessly dash off whatever idea flashes through our mind, with little time spent crafting the message and little consideration of whether the idea is worthwhile and beneficial to share. And in a public forum like social media, the same posts are broadcast to elderly aunts, old school mates, coworkers, and a variety of accumulated casual acquaintances. They are fashioned to suit the preferences of the poster, rather than being thoughtfully tailored for the recipient.

By contrast, while writing a short greeting in each card, I am inspired to spend a few moments  thinking about each particular person or family, and reflecting on my relationship with them and the important events that have taken place in their lives in the past year. Are they celebrating successes, struggling, or mourning? Have I been present to share these experiences with them? How seldom I stop to focus on the people who are important to me, and really appreciate the blessing that each one is to my life!

Flipping through the address book (I like to keep a hard copy) is also occasion to reflect on the people who are not in my life anymore.  Some have fallen away as the current of life draws us in different directions. Even more sad are the entries for those with whom I have experienced a rift, or others who have passed on. The annual ritual of sending Christmas cards is a tangible marker of how relationships change as calendar pages turn.

Considering each loved one with regards to the season compels even deeper regard. I feel a twinge of discomfort sending an explicitly Christian card to some, uncertain whether they know Christ, or imagining they will be indifferent to or even annoyed by the Bible verse on the card. Some people on my list, I expect to have continued fellowship in eternity. For others, I resolve to pray more fervently for their salvation. Considering birth of the Saviour while straightening the stack of written greetings to the most important people in my life makes me keenly aware of my bountiful blessings of special people and relationships.