Proud sons of a noble heritage
It wasn’t about slavery, and then or now, it never really was. It’s about family.
A few months ago I attended a talk given to the Sons of Confederate Veterans by Col. Greg Eanes, the former mayor of Crewe and a retired intelligence officer in the U.S. Air Force. He has written a number of books about the Civil War from a Confederate perspective. I talked to him before his presentation, and one of the things he told me has stayed with me: “The Revolutionary War is history, but the Civil War is family.”
That’s certainly true for me. I came to the SCV not through ideology, but because my great-great-grandfather served. He was a Second Lieutenant in the 4th Virginia Cavalry, and was wounded (really he fell off his horse and broke his leg, but the official story is that he was wounded). While he was away, the Yankees burned out his plantation between Richmond and Petersburg, and the family was thrown into poverty after the war.
It was also true for those descendants I met in Amelia County — all the collaterals descended from a common ancestor, with so many collective memories of the hardships of the war. That’s family.
It was also true for the descendants of General A.P. Hill, whose statue was removed from Monument Avenue in Richmond last year. Gen. Hill’s remains were buried under his statue, and those were disinterred from their resting place in January. They were reinterred in a cemetery near Culpeper, where he was born. Because of the possibility (or likelihood) that the reinterment ceremony would be disrupted by Antifa, BLM, etc. if it were publicly announced, news about the event was spread solely by word of mouth through the Sons of Confederate Veterans and the United Daughters of the Confederacy. Even so, there was a sizeable crowd, and the videos and photos of the ceremony are quite moving.
The descendants of A.P. Hill were in charge of the event. That’s family.
There are no statues of Confederates left on Monument Avenue in Richmond. The only monument that remains is a statue of the tennis player Arthur Ashe, whose melanin level protects him from molestation.
Some of the Confederate statues have been cut up or melted down, and some have been appropriated and handed over to black advocacy organizations. Eventually, as the Federal tyranny further hardens in the land, I expect the woke brigades to find a way to bypass the legal niceties and invade the private sites where some of the remaining statues have been relocated, so that the cleansing of our Diverse, Equitable, and Inclusive democracy can be completed.
When that time comes, you can be certain that there will be some ornery family members standing in the way.
And they will be armed with more than just muzzle-loading muskets.
Damned straight they will, and rightly so. Ever dedicated, ever aware, ever indomitable, they stand ever ready to take out the Woke PC trash being dumped over their heads ceaselessly by the grunting, squealing horde of vicious swine presently in charge of this misbegotten “country”—to maintain the sparkling luster of their true nation’s truest legacy, even down to the very bones of their noble ancestors, against all attempts to tarnish it and them by ill-intentioned evildoers.
Be ye not deceived: they may be momentarily defeated, but they will never be daunted, nor will they ever be dissuaded. As the classic Yes anti-Vietnam war but pro-soldier anthem puts it, theirs is NO disgrace. Lost in losing circumstances? That’s just where you are. For now. But not forever. Because, regardless of one’s felt despair in any given moment of seemingly-hopeless struggle, nothing is.
This beautiful essay is the fifth in an ongoing series of them; Part One can be found here. Whether you consider yourself what we call an Unreconstructed Southron or not, you absolutely must read them all, if you ever hope to fully understand the chain of events—a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object, as some not-quite-forgotten someone once said—which led us to the sorry, miserable vicissitude we’re all mired to the hips in today.
God bless Baron Bodissey; God bless the Sons of Confederate Veterans; and God bless the Southern Confederacy—the final rampart against creeping Yankee tyranny, long gone but never forgotten. As long as Her proud sons and daughters cherish their noble heritage in fond remembrance deep inside their own hearts and minds—as long as they still gather, in ranks assembled, to celebrate that noble heritage, bloodied but unbowed to the very last—the Confederacy will never truly die. May it ever be thus; may She live on forever and ever, long after this reign of witches shall have passed over, their spells dissolved at long, long last.