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Into Baltimore
An Early Morning Monologue with The Man In The Hat: 6/21/2022
© 2022 James LaFond
DEC/8/22
My host opened the gate of his covered pickup truck bed so that I could stow my rucksack.
He then said, “Let me show you around, James.”
We drove locally for three minutes to the other side of the valley and turned around in a parking lot of a ranch house covered by a stand of trees.
“This is my oldest son’s place. He’s got himself a nice girl who has a nice job. He’s an auto-mechanic, certified. She’s been really good for him, because the crowd he hung with, they were all about the weed, smoking a bowl and it screwed him up in trade school. But he was so eager to please, once he got off the weed and he could remember his course work, he buckled down and the school extended him a second chance after flunking him—and he took it. He is doing well and I credit her for getting him off the weed.
“My father, before he passed, got to come out here and see how close we lived, that we were all together, and even walked the inside of the house here, and he just beamed. He was an old Baltimore guy. He knew that decent folks can’t raise a family, even near, let alone in that city anymore. We lost him to a broken hip and then complications of Covid. They wanted to put the tube in him, were trying to talk him into this shit. But I got there and he told me, “I had a good life. Your mother has been gone seven years now—I’m 94, its time. Enough!”
“I took care of it and they shot him up with morphine so he didn’t suffer the last two nights. This entire thing where these medical people try and string you along at the end and make you this monstrous experiment, James, it’s just terrible. And after my Father being there for me and my Sister, adopting us—even saving our ass with the house thing—I was glad that I was able to usher him out with some dignity instead of what they were going to do to him.”
The drive meanders back within sight of the house.
“Reisterstown had gone to hell: people renting out their basements, Negroes walking the streets, businesses boarded up for two years. And then the Dominicans move in. With Dominicans next door you can’t eat out on the deck, you have no quiet, because they are blaring music, partying, fighting, double parking, nonstop, twenty-four/seven. You know The Wife, she’s got some fire in her, so she’s not having that. You can’t have Rhoda living next door to a house full of Dominicans.
“There was something up with the Dominicans, a revolving door of people, never the same people, like it was a drug house or something. The house was owned by this Hispanic realtor. This person, then, when we were selling, and had a tight three-day period when we had to buy the new place and sell the old place, this realtor put in a real low bid and held the whole thing up, almost as if he had been running all those criminals through that house to lower property values and then buy cheap after he ran decent folks out.
“Well, through the Grace of God, My Father came through he was there. We were in the lurch—fucked! And he helped my sister out and my oldest son, got us all set, got us the hell out of Negro Town! It was bad enough that my birth family had been run out of East Baltimore and Rhoda’s clan had been driven out of Woodlawn by The Negro, but then to get driven out of a really nice area where generations had fled to, that was scary, to end your days after working so hard penned into your house by criminals.”
He drives another two minutes on the narrow country roads and points out a farm.
“This is First Fruits Farm, where I volunteer. Everything that is grown is given away through church missions—good people, real good people. I have been volunteering here almost the entire time you coached Brett. This is how I knew about that good deal on our place. I could have never afforded that place if not for these connections here at the farm. Again, you turn around in strife, and God is there.”
“My Brother-in-law is alright to have around. Has himself such a nice setup out there that Brett is thinking of building himself a place out there in the woods. Now The Twins, they have yet to find their path. They have jobs—I worry about Brett being in the Army with all of this horrible shit going on around the world. Erik has got a good job, might even follow in our footsteps. I know the manager at the store he works at and the kid is so hard working and smart that he’s on the fast track. When the time comes, we will give them a leg up like My Father did for us.
“I tell you, Brother, I dread the drive into Baltimore. I have a lot of accounts in The City, and rather than drive directly to them across town, I’ll go around. It’s an open city, the wild west, Negroes letting the lead fly constantly. The cops are fed up and quitting left and right. Even Fell’s Point is done, shootings at daylight in Fell’s Point, James!”
[There was another one last night, 6/26, in Fell’s Point. The blacks there are being displaced from criminal activities by Johns Hopkins Hospital and MS-13, getting it from both ends.]
“You know, James, I belong to a cigar club, we go and smoke cigars at the shop, select some nice ones for after dinner. One of the members is a retired brain surgeon. With the fact that everywhere The Negro goes there is violence, ten times the crime, ten times the murder, trash everywhere on the street, you wonder what is the matter with these people that they don’t want the good life, that they ruin any chance at the good life by their presence. So I asked him, ‘Doc, is The Negro brain physically the same?’
“He says, ‘Yes, there is no difference in the Negro Brain.’”
“So, I suppose its social. What do you think, James?”
Crackpot Commentary
I think there are two other factors; blood and spirit, humanity and divinity. I discuss those in fiction.
Of interest is the fact that people in Africa are less intelligent according to academic measures than their [20-80% European] mongrel American offspring, and that they are much better socialized and many times less violent then African Americans. Every Africa immigrant I have met is horrified by African American behavior, most specifically the high level of crime and total lack of elder respect. This last, discarding the elderly, is a hallmark of Anglo-American society.
I am guessing here, that the Anglo-American Experience, the unique tribal negation aspect of this most mercantile of all modern societies, effects a unique and tragic transmogrification of the mongrel African person and society. Perhaps there is something particularly bad about mixing Anglo and African genetics. I do not know. It is fun to speculate though, as to why hundreds of African Americans have attacked this lone paleface in a space shared with as many palefaces, who only offered me violence on dozens of occasions. Even more interesting is the fact that these AA members were more violent to each other than to me, who they hunted like hounds after a hare.
This takes me back to Ebeneezer Cooke, who wrote The Sotweed Factor, based on his miserable time in Maryland circa 1700, when fewer than a hundred Negroes could be found in the entire Province. He hated Maryland so deeply that he laid a poetic curse on the land that it should become the domain of cannibals from Africa.
Maybe old Ebeneezer got his wish.
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