Page 53 of Lula Dean's Little Library of Banned Book
“Waylon and Willie, too. I like the Outlaws. My dad’s into the wholesome early stuff. The Carters. Jimmie Rodgers.” The doctor paused. “You know—that’s what really gets me. There are a million great Southerners who’d make a better statue than the one you’ve got.”
“Who would you pick?”
“From this state? Probably Little Richard—the Georgian who single-handedly invented rock and roll. Or maybe Brenda Lee? Alice Walker or Erskine Caldwell if you’re feeling fancy? André 3000? Whoever came up with the recipe for the fried chicken at Chester’s? The South’s greatest gift to the world is its culture. Half the music people listen to these days has its origins here. Hell, the South gave the worldbarbecueand you want to honor a slaveholding asshole who lost a war in the middle of the nineteenth century? You know what, I bet there are a ton of great actors from around here, too.”
“Julia Roberts—”
“Julia Roberts! And you’re out there fighting to protect a statue ofAugustus Wainwright? What the hell is wrong with you people?”
Mitch laughed.
“Who knows, Mitch, maybe one day they’ll put up a statue of you. But first you better get on the right side of history. Stop hanging out with book burners and racist assholes. Take a lesson from Johnny Cash and try to make the world a better place. Besides, don’t you think playing against type could get you a lot more attention?”
It was the last sentence that seemed to make an impact on Mitch. “You know what? You may be right.”
“Well, if you’re going to make a change, you’d better do it fast. Sounds like everything that happened at the rally was caught on camera. And ifI were you, I wouldn’t be caught dead hanging around with a Nazi.” Dr. Chokshi stood back to admire his work. “I think we’re done here.”
Mitch pulled out his phone. “I’m gonna need to arrange a different ride home. You mind if I hang out for a moment and call my brother to come get me?”
“Go right ahead.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
Dr. Chokshi put out a hand. “When I was born, my parents tossed a coin to see who got to name me. My father won. You can call me Hank.”
Chapter 22
Manhood: The Masculine Virtues America Needs
It was three years earlier—four years after his father died—that Logan Walsh met the man who would change his life. In those days, he preferred to keep his own company. Even though he’d been cleared of wrongdoing, people had a way of scattering when he made an appearance, like rabbits at first sight of a wolf. But the groceries still needed to be purchased and the tank filled up. So there he was, pumping gas at eleven o’clock in the evening when a man in a RAM 1500 pulled up behind him.
Logan was used to people sneaking peeks when they thought he wasn’t looking, but this man stared straight at him without blinking. When Logan returned the gaze, there was no fear in the man’s eyes, only recognition. Aside from the eyes, he was a regular-looking dude. Not tall or short. Fit but not ripped. Strong chin, thin lips, a few freckles here and there. But you could tell he was someone when he didn’t look away.
“You know the history of that symbol?” The man gestured at a sticker on Logan’s back bumper. The way he asked made it seem like he knew something Logan didn’t.
“It’s the Celtic cross,” Logan replied. “Saint Patrick brought together the cross with a symbol of the sun to help convert the pagan Celts to Christianity.”
“That all?” When the man asked, it felt like a test. Logan hated to be tested.
“I’m Irish,” he said, turning back to the pump. “That’s the story that matters to me.”
“You’re white,” the man replied. “It should mean a lot more.”
He’d felt a jolt—an electric shock that set every atom in his body in motion. “Oh yeah? Like what?” He’d wanted to sound casual, but hisohshook.
“You know about Stormfront?”
The pump clicked off and Logan replaced the gas nozzle. “Sure. I’ve checked out the site.” He’d scrolled through it once and hadn’t gone back.
“That’s a good start. I host a weekly discussion group if you’re interested. My name is Nathan Dugan.”
“Is this some kind of gay shit?” Logan cringed when he heard those words coming out of his mouth. He’d forgotten how to engage with people. He couldn’t even recall the last conversation he’d had.
“Naw, son,” Nathan responded. “And talk like that tells me how much you need us.”
Before Nathan, he’d lived mostly online. He’d get sucked into games and lose a few days at a time. When he emerged from a world, he’d relax with a little YouTube or Pornhub. Sometimes when a migraine would keep him away from screens, he’d head out to his deer blind and drink beer until he saw something to shoot. It was a largely human-free existence.
Two days after he met Nathan, Logan swallowed the red pill and entered a different world, with new friends and a mission. He hadn’t bought into it all just yet. He didn’t know any Jews aside from the old man who owned the shop downtown. And he’d gone to school with plenty of Black kids who seemed okay. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t proud of his people. No matter what all the libtards claimed, defending the white race didn’t mean attacking anyone else. And what could be wrong with preserving masculine values? God wouldn’t have made men and women different if he’d wanted everyone to be the same.
