Jack Cashill has a good word for the ever so widely despised-and-written-off ordinary non-elite white male.
For the last week or so, I have been living in the middle of a construction zone. In defiance of the climate scientists, Lake Erie and its fellow Great Lakes decided to grow instead of shrink.
While the scientists re-checked their data, the entrepreneurs got to work building sea walls. Through my lakefront windows, I have been watching one entrepreneur and his crew build me a wall. This is no small job. It’s a six-figure project that involves several major pieces of equipment. My favorite is the truck-mounted boom pump that receives the concrete from a mobile concrete mixer and distributes it through its mantis-like arms precisely to where it needs to go.
Running this operation are a half-dozen or so white guys. None of them were born with an ounce of conventional privilege. Some have not graduated from high school. All of them work ferociously as the situation demands. I get tired just watching them, but the elites do not seem to know they exist.
“Census data shows the number of White people in the U.S. fell for the first time since 1790,” shouts the much too happy headline in the Washington Post, but the Post gloats prematurely. No one wants to talk about this phenomenon, but working-class white men dominate just about every difficult and dangerous industry in America. …
It so happened that in the spring of 2020, just as the lockdowns were going into place, construction started on a 500-unit apartment complex across the street from my office. As the androgynous denizens of Westport skulked aimlessly along the street in their ubiquitous masks, a crew of youngish white men descended on the worksite.
From day one, these guys showed up unmasked. Some took smoke breaks. They joked, they laughed, they worked. They continued working even as the neighborhood lemmings marched through the streets, breaking windows, not quite sure what they were marching about. A year later, the lemmings could be seen lining up outside their favorite coffee shops, still masked, waiting for their next marching orders.
The guys across the street, meanwhile, had a building to show for their work. On Independence Day, while the soy boys sulked, the working guys celebrated as though they owned the country. They don’t own it, but they built it, pretty much damn near all of it. It is time we pay them their due.