It was a tranquil Sunday afternoon, the thunder and rain had newly cleared from the morning while leaving a hint that they may return. As the elements remained undecided, a compatriot and I risked the journey outside. The neighborhood in which we found ourselves belonged to Middle America, and as such the lawns were tidy, the houses maintained and the people reserved. Here was a section of the country seemingly undefiled by Modernity.
Passing the flagpoles, the children’s swing sets and the project cars, we casually made our way to the park. The park itself seemed frozen in time, and its character could only be described as quaint in comparison to the artificial impression made by its equivalents in more affluent neighborhoods. The play structure was still made of metal, instead of the modern plastic. There were open fields to give an opportunity for creativity and freedom in play, as opposed to crowded structuring or constrained space. The benches were of modest wood, not of the petroleum version we see more commonly today.
We continued to travel from the park down the curving, almost hand drawn cement path to a small wooden bridge over a modest creek. The creek was so unstirred that luscious green thorn bushes drowned it in their dominance. Provoked by the example before our eyes, my compatriot professed a longing for a return to the wilderness existing in the pioneer times, to which I was compelled to recall how the two men who discovered our region christened their conclusion of their exploration Cape Disappointment and vowed never to return to the wretched trap.
Laughing at such irony, we made our way to the school yard. I spotted what I yet did not know were called football blocking sleds and inquired as to their purpose with my compatriot. They were rusted and the grass had grown through their joints, clearly forgotten in favor of newer equipment. My compatriot began to recall his involvement with various sports in high school, an obvious height of his life and source of pride as he had been quite athletic in his early youth, and I could only smile with recognition at a kind that was not my own.
It was at this juncture that we spotted our first rabbit. The creature took little notice of the crow watching it so intently from atop a blocking sled we were near. As it leaned forward its tiny cotton tail poked up ever so immodestly and I let out a girlish squeal of happiness. My compartiot, also having the skills of a hunter, led me towards in rabbit in a fashion that it wouldn’t immediately dash. The little compatriot would not let us come close enough for my liking. How I longed to hold it!
To my surprise we saw several rabbits along the track, one of which was clearly born in springtime. It now being summer, the limited stature of this little fellow further warmed my heart. The feeling much reminded me of the introduction to Barbara Rosenkranz’s book, MenschInnen, which reads (my translation): “Every year in spring big and small alike rejoice in the new, the young life awakening after the rigid winter. Flowers that stick their colorful blossoms towards the sun, birds that troll their song resoundingly far, and fluttering butterflies demonstrate that life is a cycle which renews itself from generation to generation.” It is perhaps for our humble role in the greater scheme of creation and divinity that we are so taken by such delightsome scenes.
Much to my dismay the day was winding down and my compatriot and I began our return. It was at this time that I remarked to him how enjoyable an afternoon with such little ambition can be, which comes as unexpected given our culture which promotes constant stimulation and occupation.
Winding back on the waving concrete path, immersed in reflection and appreciation of this place we call home, my compatriot and I were unpleasantly interrupted by a group of vociferously disrespectful Mexican teenagers. The females were clearly flirting with the males who had walked off completely uninterested. This demonstration shattered the peace and changed the mood of an otherwise relaxed afternoon. First to express his dismay, my compatriot shared his opinion that had these been teenagers more native to the landscape we were crossing, they might have known to at least lower their voices while we passed.
It is not that we identitarian traditionalists look at a color of skin and seek to disenfranchise them as our opponents accuse us. Rather, it is that we seek to preserve that which is our own, which is modestly illustrated by this example of a walk in the park. This series of events was recorded with the hope of providing a less emotional context to discuss such important issues. Excusing them as a mere discomfort on a Sunday afternoon would be missing the point. Certainly, we Traditionalists have greater threats against us.