indigenous white americans.

The death of Sasquatch.

I shouldn’t be alive right now. What if instead of driving into a concrete wall, I drove into oncoming traffic? What if I lived 4,000 years ago, and this 6’5” Sasquatch standing in front of me picked me up and broke my back over his knee?

I am Batman in this allegory.

I google searched the title of this article, and it came up with this:

>the notion of an Asiatic threat was well established in U.S. culture
>sensationalized Chinese invasion narrative
>the forgotten novels of Pierton Dooner, Robert Woltor, and Arthur Dudley Vinton
>the tragic consequences of unfettered Chinese immigration

It seems like not much has changed in 150 years.

What do I mean by indigenous? What does that word even mean? I recall the words of Edward Bellamy, founder of the Nationalist Club movement of 1888:

Every sensible man will admit there is a big deal in a name, especially in making first impressions. In the radicalness of the opinions I have expressed, I may seem to out-socialize the socialists, yet the word socialist is one I never could well stomach. In the first place it is a foreign word in itself, and equally foreign in all its suggestions. It smells to the average American of petroleum, suggests the red flag, and with all manner of sexual novelties, and an abusive tone about God and religion, which in this country we at least treat with respect. [...] Socialist is not a good name for a party to succeed within America. No such party can or ought to succeed that is not wholly and enthusiastically American and patriotic in spirit and suggestions.¹

You may have never heard those words, but every American has heard the words of his cousin Francis:

I pledge allegiance to my Flag and the Republic for which it stands, one nation, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.

Ironically, although Francis Bellamy was a preacher, he did not include the words “under God.” Francis and Edward were both Christian Socialist Nationalists. Hitler plagiarized eugenics from Americans, and it is also possible that it was Americans, not Germans, who were the first “National Socialists.”

so, what is indigenous?

I met an indigenous white American today. There aren’t many of them left. What does it mean to be indigenous?

An indigenous person is “of the land.” I am certainly not an indigenous person, and I have very little political regard for indigenous people.

Right now, there are indigenous people in Brazil, Bolivia, or the Andaman Islands who are being threatened, assimilated, railroaded, and intermarried out of existence. I don't pay this very much attention.

Indigenous means “born within the house,” from endongenes. Here house could mean a physical house, or it could be a metaphorical house, like the “House of Gryffindor.” To be indigenous means to be born within a certain type, to the exclusion of others.

In this sense, a racially mixed person cannot be indigenous — until the memory of mixing fades into oblivion, beyond recognition. The slur against indigenous white Americans is that they are “inbred.” To be fair, the genetic evidence suggests that Indians, Arabs, and Africans are much more likely to practice cousin marriage.

I am not a white nationalist. I do not believe in deporting, expelling, forcibly separating, or legally segregating the races. But certain white Americans (not me, and certainly not all!) have as much a claim to being indigenous people as any others. On indigenous people’s day, I celebrate the red haired, blue eyed Sasquatch.

i hit the wall.

I crashed into a wall today. I’ve driven 75,000 miles for the past five years and never crashed into anything in my car.² If I’m a bad driver, I must also be a very lucky driver.

If I had to blame someone or something, it would be this woman and her two dogs that keep me up. I am a misophonic insomniac. When I hear noise, I come into a quiet rage. I blast white noise from speakers to drown it out, but I still can hear the pitter patter of her pit bulls wandering around, aimlessly, traversing circles as she mindlessly stomps around her kitchen, back and forth, endlessly banging and thumping my ceiling, driving me absolutely insane.

I do not sleep. And so I drive into walls.

Knocking, hammering, and tumbling things about has made the whole of my life a daily torment.

It deprives life of all peace and sensibility. Nothing gives me so clear a grasp of the stupidity and thoughtlessness of mankind

[It] paralyses the brain, destroys all meditation, and murders thought

Hammering, the barking of dogs, and the screaming of children are abominable

That such infamy is endured in a town is a piece of barbarity and injustice

The general toleration of unnecessary noise, for instance, of the clashing of doors, which is so extremely ill-mannered and vulgar, is a direct proof of the dullness and poverty of thought that one meets with everywhere.³

I will not quote the more severe passages prescribing violence against noise makers, because I do not want them to be used against me someday in a court of law.

It started today at 7:00am. I was ready and awake at 3:00am. I got everything done I needed in the house, and fled as soon as it began. Somehow or another, I managed to crash into a wall.

It was at an abandoned building in the middle of town.

A building made out of glass blocks, like something from Minecraft.

I may be using AI image generation too much, and it is seeping into the real world. Between AI and sleep deprivation, I’m losing my grip on reality. I had to see what was inside this building.

It was locked shut. There was no sign to indicate what it was, no label on Google Maps. It looked perfect inside.

I thought about living inside this weird and wonderful empty building that manifested from my wishes and aspirations. But I was looking suspicious peering through the glass. In a rush, I hopped in my car and drove off.

Or, I would have, if there wasn’t a very low-lying wall diagonal to my path. I met it in the process of swiftly turning around.

Imagine something slightly higher than the little curb wall (which is probably 6 inches high) and a fully blown 2 foot tall wall. Something too short to be seen, but tall enough to do damage. The perfect height to ruin my day.

My car started leaking all sorts of blue fluids, which I imagined were anti-freeze. Not good. I wondered what would happen once the fluid all drained out. Would my car still run? How much time did I have? If I stayed put, maybe I would be stuck. Only one way to find out.

As I began to drive, the bashed-in front bumper scraped on the pavement and my tires. It was a horrible Nazgul noise. I wonder what sort of screaming predator my ancestral mind was imagining while I winced in misophonic pain.

I went to an auto shop, and they told me there was a two week waitlist. He said it was easy: “just unscrew the front bumper and throw it in the trunk.” He told me to go get the tools and do it myself.

This was a moment where I wanted to say, “actually, treat me like you would a woman. Now, you wouldn’t tell a woman to just go do it yourself! That’s rude. I am helpless.” But my masculine pride didn’t allow me to say that. So I weakly smiled and thanked him for the advice. Maybe if I bought the tools and screwed around in the parking lot of Lowe’s, something good would eventually happen.

That painful smile made him rethink his advice. “Wait, let me give you this guy’s number, maybe he can help.”

finding sasquatch.

I called the number, and blurted out my problem in exasperated detail, assuming no help was forthcoming. Sorry, I can’t help you. Busy today. I don’t have the tools for that. The anticipation of rejection made me anxious, which caused me to ramble. After I was done over-explaining the problem, the mystery man said “ok, come on over. I’ll send you the address.”

As I drove down the road, my bumper grinding and squealing against pavement and rubber, I noticed my GPS was taking me into a residential area. The houses were getting less “towny” and more “country.” The pavement ended, and was replaced by gravel. Now my front bumper was scraping against bits of rock, and I worried if it wouldn’t just burrow me under the ground. I drove slowly and carefully for a mile, hoping to make it all the way.

When I finally arrived, there was an 6’5” 300lbs Sasquatch waiting for me. This was Santa Claus in his younger days, with a bright red beard and piercing blue eyes. This was an indigenous white American.

As he got down to inspect my bumper, I made conversation, asking him where he was from. We were out in the middle of nowhere — this was MAGA country. He said he was from New York. I assumed Albany, or Rochester, or maybe even Buffalo. “Long Island.” I was shocked. What was he doing out here? “My family lived there 14 generations, and I finally decided it was time for one of us to leave.”

When he said that, that was the slow beginning of what would eventually become an overwhelming sadness. But I didn’t quite notice those feelings arising in me, not yet.

When I went to the repair shop, the guy told me I would have to remove the front bumper. It was totally bent out of shape and was beyond the point of saving. I resigned myself to this fate, trusting the expert. What did I know?

Sasquatch had a different idea. He got down on the concrete floor of his make-shift home-grown auto shop, and reached underneath to feel around for purchase. He gripped the bumper in just the right spot, and pulled it with all his might. POP. Like magic, the hard mangled plastic was roughly reformed.

“Didn’t know I could do that.” He got some more tools and started removing the broken dangling bits. Was this Hercules? Was this Goliath? I pushed against the plastic with my foot and couldn’t get it to budge. His hands were stronger than my legs. This was a moment where I realized his guy could have picked me up by the throat and thrown me across the room.

Not that he would. But he could. This was a man of power. But like the beast, he was banished to the backwoods, hiding from the world, hating humanity.

I shared his misanthropy. We were both tired of the noise. He shared my complaints. “Too many drunken people in town. Too many addicts out here. Too many houses down by the lake. You can’t enjoy the nature.”

He told me how his wife was a veterinarian, how she grew up in Hawaii and Texas. He loved to hunt, but told me how he raised a baby deer who lost its mother. “I couldn’t kill it — wouldn’t be fair.” He told me why it was hard to have kids when it would cut into his budget for guns and four wheelers. He made fun of the libertarians around him, in a loving way, where he called them crazy but shared their desire for freedom.

I tried to read all of the different words tattooed into his arms, but I couldn’t decipher any of them. He smiled up at me while unscrewing the bolts holding my damaged car cover. “I think that should stop the scraping.”

When he finished, I told him the guy at the auto shop quoted me $150, and he said, “I’ll do you one better. It didn’t take me an hour, so how about $75?” I told him I didn’t have cash one me, and asked if he had a card reader. A silly question. He said there was an ATM up the road, so I pulled out my driver’s license to hand to him as a deposit. He didn’t take it. “I trust you.”

As I drove away, I started to cry in that manly way where tears never fall, but remain floating in the eyes. There must be a muscle, like a tear duct sphincter, which controls the flow of tears. When I begin, it squeezes tight, so no one can know except me.

It was the insomnia and the stress of the day’s events. I was sleep deprived and emotional. Hitting a wall doesn’t happen every day. I was overwhelmed and sensitive. It wasn’t that sad.

And yet, I felt a deep sense of loss, like I was meeting the last Sasquatch on earth.

If I had to describe Sasquatch in one word, it would be this: noble. He was honest, trustworthy, honorable, and kind. He was strong, but humble. He had no need for pretensions or lies.

I am not a hunter. I am not a four-wheeler or auto mechanic. I can barely tie my own shoes. He’s a 14th generation American, and I wasn’t born in this country. He has the last name of a president, and I’m a nomad running from a populist pogrom. We have nothing in common. But I wanted to be his friend. And I was sad that I would never see him again. I was sad that perhaps, one day, no one would ever see him again.

I have been thinking about death constantly, obsessively. Not because I want to hurt myself. I find this is another area of my psychology that normal people struggle to understand. My obsession with death is not a desire for death, but a fear of death.

When I die, I imagine that whatever I am, in my essence, my soul, must continue on in some fashion. What scares me is the idea that I will lose all of the flawed, superficial, mediocre parts. When I say this, it sounds ridiculous, but that is the fear I feel. The fear of losing my humanity, my resentments, and my tragedies. Eckhart Tolle calls this “the pain body.”

Ideally, I would let go of this pain body, and embrace my death as a form of transcendence toward the perfect. There is a perfect version of me, a perfect Deep Left, which I aspire toward. In the Platonic Heaven, the eternal spiritual sky, I will become this perfect version of myself, leaving behind earthly shadows.

But what of Sasquatch? What of the indigenous white American? When he dies, will his kind still exist? Or will they fade into myth, like the Etruscans, Trojans, and Scythians?

I am not speaking strictly in genetic terms. To be indigenous is to have a sense of one’s ancestors and one’s land. The Romans didn’t need to exterminate all the Etruscans — they just needed to make them forget who they were. Now they’re just Italians, like everyone else.

I’m not making a practical or scientific argument. Maybe there’s some measurement of social cohesion or trust that would justify some policy of white indigenous preservation. I’m not making that argument. I’m not suggesting that Mexican Americans wouldn’t fight and die for this country, or that Indian Americans can’t successfully run our companies. But you can’t buy 14 generations. You have to live it.

I felt sad thinking that he wouldn’t have children. I thought of his noble qualities, and how they would disappear with his death. I wondered if I could give him money to increase his birth rate. Probably not, but I did end up sneaking him the $150 by slipping in a Target gift card with the cash.⁴ I hate gift cards. His wife can use it.

Morally, I’m sure Sasquatch’s ancestors killed a lot of native Americans, directly or indirectly. But all indigenous people do that: they kill each other and take each other’s land. That’s part of their indigenous folkways. I may disagree with it, and I would be horrified to see it reenacted in the modern day, but it doesn’t make the Sasquatch Americans any less indigenous than anyone else.

I love Sasquatch because he is different. He is a noble savage, totally unlike an over-socialized nerd like me. I love the exotic and the foreign. It is a strange time we live in, where such types are rare. But more than anything, I love his positive qualities: strength, honor, fair-mindedness, good will, joy, patience, and forbearance. Those are good things no matter where you come from.

I resent the fetishization of dysfunctional Americans of any ethnicity. Sasquatch isn’t asking for a handout, and he doesn’t need one. Frankly, if an indigenous people needs life-support in order to survive, they may not deserve to survive. The indigenous are meant to be wild and free, not raised in a welfare zoo.

Sasquatch told me that he raised the baby deer for about two years. He never caged it in, but every day it would wander into his backyard for food. Eventually, it grew up, and found itself in the territory of a stronger buck.

Like humans, deer are extremely territorial animals. Males compete for territory, and if you find yourself in the wrong neighborhood, you’re going to get beat up. You have two choices: get strong and defeat the competition, or run away.

Sasquatch could have kept the deer in a pen to protect him from harm. He could have created a reservation. He could have given him food stamps to keep him around. But he let him go, and he found his own territory to patrol. To be truly indigenous requires agency. An animal in a zoo is not indigenous to the zoo. To be indigenous means ownership of the land. It’s not something which can be granted, but only won through blood. Many people called “indigenous” today, who retain the mere title, have already lost the indigenous spirit: live free or die.

In today’s globalized world, the number of indigenous people is shrinking. It’s not just whites that are losing their roots. I recognize this as tragic, but I don’t want to play zoo keeper. The honor of the indigenous cannot be preserved through the dishonor of infantilization.

Nationalism is a horrifying and petty idea. Nature decrees that nations arise and nations die. There is nothing natural about a border of any kind. Even the tallest mountains are meant to be conquered by the human spirit.

But if Sasquatch is dying, the least we can do is pay our respects. The best way to respect this noble creature is to ensure that whatever replaces him is worthy. If we replace Sasquatch with favelas and double chunk chocolate cookies, this is a great crime.

The best way to avoid this is a global fertility collapse. Mass culture can only be reduced through a physical reduction of biomass. This is a case where the crime itself becomes the punishment: mass culture leads to fertility collapse, and resolves itself. McGenics.

I left the woods today with a sense of vicarious nostalgia for an indigenousness which I do not share. Leftists feel this all the time, for Zulus and Māoris, but never extend it to Sasquatches. This is because they equate all white people together into one supreme race. I see things differently. I am a different race from Sasquatch. Our kids could intermarry and produce some kind of intermediate type — half Sasquatch, half liberal elf. But even then, we would be on opposite ends of a widening continuum.

Secretly, most liberals understand that Sasquatch isn’t just merely “white,” and they resent Sasquatch as a potential competitor. They are able to fetishize other indigenous people because they truly feel superior to them, whereas they are intimidated by the strength and nobility of a Sasquatch. I don’t fetishize any of these people, because although I recognize the tragedy of death, I truly hope and believe in something new.

Whether that’s AI-fueled genetic engineering or something else, I’m not sure. I’m not a scientist. The new humanity is going to be much more familiar to us than many people imagine. I don’t think it will be a race of Gods or an insectoid swarm. They will be human, like you or me, but they will be indigenous to science. Some say that Gen Z is already indigenous to the internet, and this is half-way there, but stuck in an uncanny valley. When the new man has arrived, his fertility and genius will exceed all prior generations.

When the new man comes, I don’t know if he’s going to be 6’5” and able to bang a bumper into shape with his bare hands, but that would be cool too. In honor of Sasquatch. Whatever the future, may his spirit live on.

afterward.

As I write this, a sickly-looking janitor shuffles up to me, and tells me, for the fifth time this week, “I’m going to close the cafe, just so you know.” I do know. His voice is shaky, sputtering out of an addled mind. I wonder if he destroyed his brain with drugs, like Ozzy Osbourne. Or maybe he was born this way. Maybe he was hit by a car at age five and the brain damage left him mentally handicapped.

I’m not sure how he ended up like this, but the disease infected his entire body. He was weak, hunched over, his skin grizzled, his entire face in a constant state of Tim-Walz shock. There are certain people who cannot control their facial expressions, or they are unaware of how they appear, and they inappropriately project or communicate emotions without meaning to. Or maybe he genuinely feels shocked and afraid that I am here so late, again and again.

“Just so you know, I’m closing the cafe.”

I can sense that this is a tortured creature, and the empathetic response is pity. Instead, I cannot help but feel disgust. This is not a Sasquatch warrior. Such a man did not “build this country.” He wasn’t a pioneer, or a soldier; a colonist or a settler; he wasn’t Lewis or Clark, or a Mormon patriarch; he wasn’t a law maker or a fur trapper. At most, he was an indentured Irish servant; a domestic cleaner; a bell-ringer; a door-man. In other words, a wage-slave.

It was normal for most young people to be domestic servants from their teenage years until around 24 years old. From 1600 to 1800, most women delayed marriage until age 24.

It is historically normal for young people to be poor indentured servants until their mid-twenties, or as we call them now, college students. But being stuck in this phase of life into your 30s or 40s indicates that something has gone terribly wrong. This is not the class of shudra, or the craftsmen and dwarvish metal-makers who drive chariots and design jewelry. This is dalit, the untouchable class.

The deception of populists, in rolling together dalit and shudra, is a sin against God and nature. It is avarna.

Even worse, they will look at some shuffling janitor, and say something like, “this man built America! He fought and died in wars!” To mix Kshatriya with dalit — this is too much. “Who built the pyramids?” Indeed.

The avarnic lies of the populists will forever conflate Kshatriya with dalit, which will end in the destruction of both. They fail to see the distinction between a principled man who forsakes the city life in favor of self-reliance, and a bottom-feeding zombie. The first is tragic because his value is untapped; the second is tragic because his value is absent.

Medieval Christianity understood such distinctions and did not endlessly protest against them. The founding fathers disenfranchised those who could not rise above the herd. It is the rage of the convert, like Islamo-Atheist turned TradCath Sohrab Ahmari, who has defied both the feudal and Republican order, with the smokescreen of “national populism” as his wrecking ball. Spare me!

1. Edward Bellamy to William Howells, June 17, 1888. From: Sylvia E. Bowman, The Year 2000: A Critical Biography Of Edward Bellamy. 1958, p. 114.

2. There was one time involving another car, but that’s another story…

3. On Noise, Arthur Schopenhauer.

4. This is where your Substack payments are going.